


Parentheses

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parentheses: Blair's thoughts in brackets. About digressions along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parentheses

## Parentheses

by Spyke

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

Not mine, only the idea. Who'd want to claim that?

To my darling Resham and Tiernan for weird looks and dinners where I rave about slash. To Dale who listened to the story kernel before it mutated.   
More warnings? The kernel mutated. Violence, strong language, playing with style, extrapolation of canon. You have been warned.

Parentheses - intervals, interruptions, structures complete in themselves but part of a larger whole.   
Set ~1.5-2 years post TSbyBS. My favorite time.

* * *

\-- 

The burning man broke through the windows of Cascade Towers, body twisting in lethargic contortions as he fell, splintering glass. For an instant he was glorious, a human torch, a comet that fell with deadly accuracy before air pressure and gravity combined to extinguish the flames on his back and cause ungentle implosions in skin and nervous tissue. For an instant he flamed, then hit the ground with a thick, wet sound, hands grasping uselessly as brain matter seeped out into the gentle wash of echoing rain. 

"Shit!" A fist thudded against a window in the opposite block, but didn't manage to break the glass. Binoculars dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers. "Jim!" 

"He's down," and Jim was halfway out the door, hands having barely touched the reassuring weight of his side-holster. Blair followed, muttering into his cell. 

They ran down the stairs and out the door, crossing the space between office blocks at a run, barely pausing to look at the broken mass in the parking lot, hoping and praying the rain and gray clothing provided camouflage. 

"Shit, shit, shit," Jim's chant echoed by Blair's "Please, please, please," thudding in time with their footsteps. Up the stairs and pause for a brief moment in the first floor lobby where Jim cocked his head, sniffed the air and nodded, "That way." Three flights - Blair hissing, "Elevator, elevator!" to which Jim's terse reply was, "Rigged"; breath shortening as precious air had to be used in answering the soft static of backup, answering and confirming that the building was being surrounded, which was a good thing, that they wouldn't be alone here. (Except they were, weren't they, alone with a madman and his twisted psychosis waiting to be unleashed on a child) up and up and endless up and Blair's thoughts fragmented, jumbled between '... fear of heights, I LOATHE them, soon as this is over we're moving to Flatland or somewhere 2-dimensional, stairs, I fucking _hate_ stairs' and 'Jim, God Jim, please no, come on, hurry, where, where, where...' 

...up and up and finally, _finally_ Jim stopped, flat against the wall of the forty-fucking-seventh floor, motioning for Blair to stay in the shadows. 

Blair stopped instantly, froze every nerve, and tried not to breathe. 

(Stupid.) 

Blood boiled, mixed with saliva, choking and flooding his chest. Blair inhaled, desperate for oxygen, for the freedom to make a sound, one sound, just ONE sound - 

And found Jim's hand on his chest, flat against the heart, not pressing but like, restraining the pain and the shock was so great he actually hiccoughed. 

**"SHIT!"**

and Blair echoed that silently as he and Jim dropped to the ground, ignoring the crack of bullets and sudden thin, high childish scream; just thinking, 'I'm moss, I'm stone, I'm blended _into_ the fabric of the carpet, you can't see me, you _won't_ see me,' and another crack of thunder made him move his palms stupidly up to cover his ears, his ringing ears and he felt his wrist tugged and the emptiness of space that meant Jim wasn't next to him, Jim was UP and out of there - 

and Blair rose, wincing as shards of glass burrowed through his skin, and found his partner of the smoking gun, hero Jim who saves the day shouldering his gun and yelling, "Get the kid! I'll follow him." 

Excuse me? 

"The kid! Get the KID!" and with a last frantic sweep of his arm Jim was off and running, Mr. Superhero Sentinel man, barely winded and running up another fifty or so flights of stairs where Blair had no doubt he would catch up with the villain and bring him appropriately to justice. Leaving Detective Blair Sandburg, Detective _wheezing_ and more out of shape than he thought, Sandburg quite literally holding the baby - the _baby_ , Jesus Christ - and Blair wiped sweat and sprinkles of glass out of his carpet impregnated face, looking through lint for a clue. 

A sound so thin it couldn't be called a scream, too high and defined for a whimper. A wordless cry, a lark, a nightingale thought Blair, bizarrely stepping through pieces of glass while trying to avoid crunching them into the carpet, shuddering as he sidestepped a dark wet pool of something slick and oily - 

(blood he fell he fell he fell burning he fell) 

and wet as he sidestepped the body lying doggedly slumped against the door - (can't touch me, hah) - entered the room, quiet and shattered with only a soft white cot and a huge-eyed child, one-and-a-half-maybe-two clutching the sides of its basket, wide-eyed and trembling lipped. 

Detective Sandburg 

(my hair, must be a mess, is there glass in my hair) 

brushed himself off perfunctorily and knelt, wincing before the little prince-let and whispered softly, "It's okay, don't worry, you're safe now" to a child who'd seen his father set ablaze and toppled out of a window moments ago. 

(Very convincing.) 

"It's okay, don't be afraid," whispered Blair Sandburg incongruously, finding no other words and saying these because he didn't dare to reach out and touch the boy. "It's all right. It's all right." 

The babe gripped the sides of his cot and stared disbelievingly, but didn't cry. 

"It's okay," said Blair again, and again. 

The child's mouth opened slightly and issued a whisper of a lark's scream. 

"Ssh," said Blair helplessly ignoring the sound. "Ssh. Ssh. It's all right, you're okay," again and again until the child gulped a sob and fell wretchedly silent. "It's okay, you'll be okay," again and again as if repetition could make this true. 

It's okay. It's okay. 

Still saying it as the SWAT team entered and took charge, both of the child and the hulking, trembling man Jim brought down from the helipad. Silently internalized all the way downstairs, mentally replaying the counterpoint of reassurance and screams until everything finally failed him at the sight of Eli Stoddard reaching trembling arms out for all that remained of his family, arms that gathered the child and held him close while his face, tremulous with joy and dumb with the fragile renewal of hope turned automatically to thank the rescuers 

(who'd watched his son fall to his death) 

(no thank you) 

As fiction it was a pretty good plot but in real life, Blair decided, in real life it would probably be a very, very good idea to turn around and head for the truck, in the direction of the cops and bustle that surrounded Jim as Clive Harkowitz was taken into custody. 

Blair turned and walked away without once looking back into the crowd for a silver-haired man waiting to receive his grandchild. 

\-- 

Fridge. The open door released clouds of cool vapor, frosty on his skin and necessary against the bruising, raising little red pinpricks that marked where glass penetrated the fabric unprotected by Kevlar. 

Blair leaned against the fridge door wondering if he should try drinking something stronger than beer. 

His stomach was roiling anyway. This can was probably not a good idea. 

What the hell. 

Blair drained one drink and reached out for the next. Cold air hit him under the arm, raising the hairs and reminding him that there had been a time when he'd hated the cold. 

Once. Upon a time. (There lived a Blair who hated the cold.) 

Blair leaned shirtless against the open fridge and waited for the cold to reach his heart and numb it. 

He took another swallow of beer and thought about Aaron Stoddard tumbling through the air, clothes and hair and face aflame as his son watched. Wondered how long it would take a toddler to forget even milliseconds of his father ablaze. If ever a kid could forget his own father. 

A gust of humidity and he turned, seeing Jim enter the loft, shed coat and wet shoes at the door, quirking his eyebrows from across the room. Ah yes. He was shirtless wasn't he? 

"Hey." 

"Hey." Blair closed the fridge and moved towards his room. Came out buttoning flannel, found Jim was already in the shower and felt stupidly cheated. 

Not that he wanted to talk or anything, but that Jim was anticipating him so neatly. 

Or maybe he just wanted a shower. Huh. 

Blair shrugged on another layer of shirt and started dinner. 

Onions were sizzling lightly in the pan, an occasional splatter of oil jumping up but cooling before it reached his skin. Behind him a displacement of air, a movement like a finger stopped before it traced the collar of his shirt. 

"Hey," said Jim like they were meeting for the first time. 

"Hey," and Blair leaned backwards slightly, felt the inrush of air as Jim sidestepped, moving towards the fridge and taking out a beer like that'd been his plan all along. 

You shit, Ellison. 

Jim held the can against his forehead, wincing at the cold. "You okay?" 

Blair scraped some ginger into the pan. "Um, let's see. Yes." 

"Okay." Jim leaned over and sniffed. "Smells good." 

Frying ginger spat out hot droplets that sprang up and hit Jim right on the nose. "OW!" Moving back startled as Blair compressed his lips and told him, "Go away. I can handle this." 

"Yeah," and a considerably cowed Jim backed away from the stove. 

Blair added the cloves and a clove of garlic. "Jim. You're in my space." Turned around to reach for the tomatoes, found Jim already holding the bowl in his hands. "Oh. Thank you." Turned back and added the red to brown, mixing in defiance of the spluttering oil. Stirred and turned the pan, conscious of the eyes, of the man behind him. 

"You're in my spa-ace," sang Blair softly, angrily. 

Jim heard. 

Movement of air and glide of body. Swift motion, Jim brushing by casually, almost casually bestowing a light peck on his cheek that might have been made by a finger - but wasn't - a tiny brush of lips to skin that warmed to a slow burn long after Jim had disappeared into the living room to flip channels. 

Blair took a breath, held it inhaling the redolence of pepper and bite of ginger. Held the feeling of a palm pressed against his chest, holding the pain in until he had to exhale, forcing out spice and tangible memories of blood and fire. 

"You're in my space," he muttered very, very softly. 

The noise of changing channels continued. No sign anyone had heard. 

\-- 

(Brenda Harkowitz slumped against the door, body guarding in death what it couldn't protect in life... pretty thoughts, Blair, pretty thoughts, keep it up we'll make a poet out of you) 

"This is good. What do you call it?" 

(Nightingale's tongues, the cry of a lark, could a two year old remember his father dying?) 

"I call it your recipe for stroganoff, that's what I call it. Butter?" 

(Spread on bread, easy to slip down. Eat, must eat something, normalcy is good, a line, a fine thin line we tread, a thin blue line, see I've always been fascinated by the concepts of closed societies) 

Jim slid the dish over the table while chewing on another bite. "It's still good." 

"Yeah." The butter dish was in his hand, circular and smooth metal; the knife cutting through soft yellowness like 

(a man falling through a window and splintering glass, glass in my throat did I spit it all out?) 

"You're not eating that?" 

(throat hurts. swallow.) 

"I am. Slowly." 

(Swallow - a summer bird that flies. Wasn't there a story somewhere, someone who cut the wings off the swallows so they couldn't fly and summer would stay forever, but the wind came and broke the tower -) 

(so he fell, he fell) 

(I didn't even know him that well.) 

Blair blinked, realizing they'd been silent, Jim watching him. He put a bite of bread in his mouth and chewed, carefully. Forty times, his uncle'd told him. Forty times for good digestion. 

Or was it fifty? 

Jim nodded, satisfied or confirming. Turned his chair around and negotiated channels. ESPN, Sports, CNN, Channel 7... 

The newscaster blinked into existence, carrying words with her. "... where 37 year-old industrialist Aaron Stoddard plunged to a fiery death." 

Footage, shots of a tarp-covered area, police motioning with their hands, 'No comment', the commentator continuing regardless. "While Clive Harkowitz was unavailable for comment, the death of his daughter, nine year old Delilah Harkowitz, made headlines earlier this year as the first reported casualty-" 

Blair turned the television off and tossed the clicker down near the butter. Jim watched him, gaze unwavering and guiltless. 

"I'm not hungry." Blair nodded at the mess on the table. "Your turn to clear." 

He walked quickly into his room and shut the door, feeling eyes on his back all the way. 

\-- 

(The shit. The stupid, wannabe _shit_.) 

He was too tired to come up with more than passive disgust. 

(Just. Fuck you. The psychology of the individual is my specialty Jim, not yours.) 

**RING!**

Phones were so loud. Was a phone ringing now in the Stoddard household? It'd been a while since Blair'd sat shiva for anyone. He knew they covered mirrors. What else? Did they turn off phones? 

"Hello?" 

And that was the other thing. What would he say if someone picked up the phone? Who should he ask for? What could he _say_? 

"Yes, this is he." 

Good, someone for Jim. Not for him. He didn't really have anything to say to anyone right now. 

"Fine, Monday then." 

Monday. His deposition was in a month's time. Harkowitz, quiet and not sniveling in the interrogation room, full of a strange quiet dignity now that the man whose invention had killed his daughter - fireproof pajamas! Lightweight, fireproof, easily affordable fabric. A success on the kiddy market. Dr. Stoddard had been so proud... father a genius in his field, son a genius in HIS, genius turned millionaire industrialist, what more could any family want? - fireproof but carcinogenic. Tumors on nine year old skin. Pictures splashed all over the Cascade Times. What could he have done? Rung up and told the Stoddards, I know, I was there? A year ago, I was there. 

But Aaron Stoddard hadn't known. 

Had he? How could he have known? 

Had he? 

A tap on his door. Blair lay on the bed and didn't say come in. 

A shadow against the curtains. The fabric fluttered a bit with the second knock. 

"Go away," he enunciated clearly, not speaking but certain Jim was following the motion of his lips. 

Jim went away. 

\-- 

The kiss burned on his cheek when he shaved next morning. Unasked, unwelcome - why now, Jim? Some screwed timing, friend, seriously fucked - unwanted kiss, he'd forgotten about it almost, but the circular motion of his fingers raising foam and the scrape of the razor reminded him he'd been touched. 

Blair rinsed, watching himself in the mirror. 

A knock on the door. "I'm almost done!" he yelled, soaking a washcloth. 

The sound of footsteps retreating, or the lessening of pressure. Sometimes it seemed like Jim's eyes could burrow through the door, he was that powerful. 

Blair wiped his face carefully and checked the cloth for spots of blood. Seemed like he'd cut himself except he hadn't. Okay. 

Okay. 

He opened the door and stepped out into the colder air. Jim was at the balcony, boxer-clad with a towel slung around his neck. 

Blair joined him. "All yours." 

Jim turned and looked at him, bland and expressionless yet somehow reminding Blair that those words could be taken 

(oh shut up) 

in a very different way. 

"Shower." Blair clarified. "Shower's all yours." 

Jim nodded, breaking - (the moment? something...) - silence with an audible sneeze. Sneezed again and again, pulling the towel tighter around his neck as he jogged to the bathroom, goose pimples raised slightly on his otherwise flawless skin. Blair felt his lips move, the smile stretching and cracking the muscles of his face. 

It hurt. Smiling hurt. 

(broken glass, bleeding face) 

Coffee, acid and bitter in his stomach helped. For a while. 

\-- 

Fingers would have been better, he thought of telling Jim, watching his partner through the rearview mirror, imagining said fingers gripping the wheel tightly. Fingers, you know, if you wanted to touch me and see I was okay, fingers are good at establishing contact. I could have used fingers. A hand on my cheek or neck or arm and that might have been good. Fingers. Non-threatening and masculine, Jim, you are aware of the concept that men do not kiss, not even hit-and-run, not in our culture and certainly not between friends. 

Brothers? Did brothers kiss? 

He had to ask Jim that, if he and Steven had ever kissed. But the danger was that maybe Jim would say yes, yes they had, because Jim was pretty tactile. 

Stoddard had, though, embraced him once after reading the first draft of his Masters thesis. 'In loco parentis,' he'd said, his eyes filmy with accumulating cataracts but still shining. 'And this is good Blair, this is very good. Except here, and here...' and that had been his masters thesis, the first paper he'd ever had published. Second author, Dr. Eli Stoddard, of his own volition, not just because Blair was the nephew of his best friend. Because it had been a very good piece of work. 

Eli clutching his grandson and not asking about his son. Megan had told him about that. Eli not asking about Aaron. 

Not asking about Blair either, but had Megan told him that? 

Not entirely certain about the answer, Blair took the exit to the PD. 

\-- 

"Detective Sandburg!" 

Blair froze, halfway out of the car. Oh great. Oh _shit_. 

He slapped the microphone away and got the rest of himself out of the car. 

"No comment." 

"Detective Sandburg isn't it true -" 

"No _comment_." 

And if I did have one I certainly wouldn't tell you. 

\-- 

"Is there someone else you need to tell?" Jim had asked three days after Blair filled out the enrollment forms for the academy. Turning and pacing their living room floor, not mentioning names but Blair knew what he was trying to say. 

Stoddard in Borneo, still working on the indigenous tribes paper. Gathering up the last few pieces of data - 'but I'll be back for the viva, Blair,' he'd written. 'I know you'll do me proud.' 

Stoddard deserved the truth, didn't he? Or not. Because there were certain limits Blair wouldn't push anymore. Once he'd thought Naomi would understand, but she... the truth was, Blair had realized, the truth was that there really wasn't anyone else in the world who'd think of Jim first and so that made Blair protector by default. No, no telling Stoddard. 

No returning his calls or visiting him either, but he hadn't thought of that then. Only all on fire with sacrifice and the beginnings of a new life with a new brotherhood, head conspirator of the conspiracy to protect Ellison, he'd smiled at Jim, at the man soon to be his official and legal partner and said, "No. No one I need to tell." 

\-- 

They rode up in the elevator together, not speaking except in platitudes. Jim would be in court all day. Blair would take over the paperwork. Would Jim be cooking tonight? What would Blair like for dinner? 

It was a relief when the elevator stopped and Jim got out. 

"Hey." Blair called at the last moment. 

Jim turned. 

"Can you handle this?" 

Jim nodded and turned away. Blair watched him walk to the morgue, glad he didn't have to go. 

\-- 

"Hey, my man!" 

Blair smiled and high-fived Brown. "Hey." Ducked around the man oblivious and made a beeline for his desk where a sea of awesome paperwork and blessed mindless concentration awaited him. 

A shadow fell on him and he looked up at Megan. 

"Blair?" 

"Hi." He motioned to the chair next to him and she sat down. 

"How are you?" 

"I'm..." he thought about this for a second and exhaled. "I could probably use a friend right now but I wouldn't know what to do with one." 

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Okay." 

"Yeah." 

And that seemed to be it, except she sat next to him for a while, sharing body warmth and not saying anything. Then, a pat on the shoulder, "Take care, Sandy" and he was alone, alone with all the freedom to think. 

Blair decided he didn't like his brain very much anymore. 

\-- 

Brenda Harkowitz was buried next to her daughter on a rainy Thursday afternoon, only her husband and a state-appointed chaplain in attendance. 

Blair watched from behind a tree. 

Clive's face was damp, with rain or tears. The uniforms with him took their caps off out of respect. 

Only the chaplain had an umbrella. In deference to the soaking mourner, he didn't use it. 

\-- 

"Hey." 

His turn this time to shuck jacket and peel off sopping shoes while Jim stood chopping things. 

You're dripping. Put paper under those. Except Jim didn't say that but Blair pretended he had and wasted time arranging paper towels under his shoes, carefully mopping up the slightest hint of damp. 

Jim's hand on his shoulder and voice saying, "Blair-" 

"Fuck!" Blair reared up, striking the hand off. "Fuck," he repeated into Jim's face, just in case he hadn't got it the first time. "What's with you, huh?" 

Jim's hand, slightly clenched. Face working in anger or surprise maybe. Words. Some words, Blair couldn't make out what exactly because he really wasn't paying attention to them. 

"I'm going out" and he reached down for his wet, stinking shoes and opened the door, fully prepared to take off and put the shoes on in his car and drive, drive all the way to Atlanta so he wouldn't have to put up with this shit. 

But Jim let him go. Didn't stop him, Jim actually let him go. 

Fuck, and he was halfway out the building before he realized his car keys were still in the basket upstairs. 

Blair hunched his shoulders and shrugged. So. He'd walk. 

Back upstairs where the door was still open and the slight scent of boiling chicken reminded him he could probably pretend the last fifteen minutes had never happened. Probably Jim even wanted him to. 

So. 

He entered the apartment and smiled brightly at Jim who was chopping things at the kitchen counter. 

"How was your day? Mine was great. I'm going out for dinner, don't wait up." And Blair took his car keys and jogged downstairs, pretending he'd heard Jim say "Have a good time." 

The car wouldn't start. 

\-- 

Finally. Halfway to Atlanta, make that Atlan*tis*, a gritty taco, food of the gods, stuck between his teeth. Blair chewed grimly, determined to finish it, every last crumbly bit. 

It tasted of ground glass and rare, bloody meat. 

Giving up he threw the taco out the window and revved the engine. 

The phone rang. He took the call. 

"Blair." 

"Yeah." 

Jim's voice, meditative. "Are you coming home?" 

"No." 

"Not yet?" 

"No." Clarifying that. "No, I don't know when." 

"Okay." Pause. "Where are you?" 

Blair looked out the window. "Some freeway." 

"Okay." Another pause and Blair imagined Jim wrestling internally, waited for words. 

That never came. 

"Take care." And the phone clicked off. 

Blair stared at it. Well, _fuck_. 

Tossed it in the back seat and accelerated. 

Fuck. Wow. 

Is this reverse psychology, Jim? Because I am the _king_ , man, I'm the _king_ of behavioral psych and you do not want to mess with me on my turf because I _know_ you I can _anticipate_ you and - 

The phone rang. 

"Yeah?" 

"Come home." 

Blair almost smiled. 

\-- 

The first time Jim kissed him it had been raining and he'd fallen fifteen feet down a mud bank, slip-sliding after Martin who'd been luckier and broken his ankle after the first three feet. Blair hadn't, he'd had too much momentum to stop and had passed the moaning thief yelling, "Gotcha you-eeeee!" on a death-defying ride through mud and pouring rain before ignominiously landing on his ass. Had lain there groaning softly and listening to the scrabbling sounds of Jim and Brown cuffing Martin, Brown hauling him back to the car while Jim gracefully slid down twelve feet and offered a hand. 

"I'm twisted, man, I'm broken, go, save yourself." Blair had waved a feeble hand. "Lilies only, by request." 

Jim had leaned down and pressed his mouth to the slight contusion on Blair's forehead before saying in a perfectly normal voice, "About as cracked as usual. On your feet," had pulled Blair up carefully, not-quite-cuffed-not-quite-caressed his temples before beginning the long trek upwards without a second glance at Blair, lost in confusion and near clarity. 

Not quite a kiss. Not quite a love story. 

Blair pulled the car into reverse and began the journey home. Took him twice as long to get there, but then he was driving at half the speed he'd set out. 

Not quite certain if he wanted to go or stay. 

\-- 

"You should eat," said Jim, motioning to the table. Blair stared at the feast. 

Macaroni. With cheese. Chicken soup. Comfort food. And standing besides it, James Joseph Ellison, rock-wall and solid friend, waiting for chicken soup to warm the soul. 

Blair laughed. 

Cry, Jim's expression seemed to say. Go on Blair, cry, grieve, I'm here for you. With noodles and soup and a warm shoulder and a kiss on the cheek that I'd give my own brother if I thought he was losing it... 

"Blair?" 

Blair stepped forward slowly, measuring each step, feeling air compress as he came closer to Jim. Closer and closer, tension like a cushion between them. 

He stopped, arms length away. 

Tilted his head. 

"How far?" Blair asked. "How far do I normally have to go before you decide it's okay to reach out?" 

Jim reached out. And stopped, raising a reasonable eyebrow. "What the hell do you mean?" 

"The distance, you know." Blair laughed. It felt like pain. "I mean, we're getting predictable here, Jim. I push, you draw away, I stick my neck spectacularly out, land on my ass, make a fool of myself and there you are, all macaroni and comfort cheese. You're shaking your head," he pointed out. "No? No, you don't think we're predictable?" 

"I think... I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about." But there had been a pause and the muscle at the side of Jim's mouth was twitching. Very faintly, but it was a tic. 

Blair inhaled. "Let's try this again. Are you a masochist?" 

Jim reached a hand out and Blair batted it away. "Are you? I mean, do you have to wait until I exude hurt before you can admit you like to touch me? Or does it make it alright with your masculine ego that you're not the one who has the _need_ , that you're not the one-" 

"You don't know what you're saying." Jim's teeth were clenched, temple vein throbbing. "Just shut _up_. You're in shock, you're - you don't know what the hell you're saying -" he bit down on the last word. 

Blair waited for Jim to say it. 

(Don't make it sexual.) 

"This is not about sex." Jim grated. 

Blair breathed out, obscurely disappointed. 

"I'm going to bed," he said. 

Jim reached out and stopped him. "No you're not." Shook him by the shoulder. "You're not going anywhere." 

Blair halted. 

(Ah. Plan B, transferring the blame.) 

(We _are_ getting predictable.) 

He spoke calmly. "Let go my arm." 

Jim let go and folded his arms, breathing heavily. Blair waited. 

"You have something to say?" 

Jim nodded, exhaling through clenched teeth. "As I recall, you were the one who waltzed into the doctor's office after _me_ , you were the one with the card and the dissertation and the one whose house blew up -" 

"You kissed me first," said Blair. "What the fuck was that?" 

Jim stopped, for a moment, Blair realized, unsure. He pressed home the advantage. "What the fuck was that, huh, Jim?" repeating it even though he knew what the answer would be. 

( _That_ was a mistake) 

"A mistake?" Which one of them had said that? 

Blair realized his mouth was open. He shut it, quickly. 

Jim's face changed, but not hardening as expected, instead melting into fluid easy lines. Blair watched amazed as Jim purred, the man _purred_ and reached a finger out to trace the curves of Blair's ear. 

(A mistake, Jim?) 

Blair held his ground, not moving. At the last moment he thought Jim might draw away, but no, the man continued, cupping and caressing. 

(Not a mistake then?) 

The touch felt filthy. The words, unclean. Unreal, rehearsed. 

"You're telling me you didn't want it? You're telling me that after pushing everywhere you can into my life you don't want this?" His voice grew lower, silkier. "Because I can feel it." Touching lips, "These tremble," moving to the line of neck and jaw, "your scent is... increasing..." 

Sick lust hit. Blair tamped down. Hard. 

(I _know_ you, Jim Ellison, don't think I don't.) 

(I used to know you...) 

( _say_ it, _that_ was a _mistake_.) 

Jim touched Blair's lips with his index finger, watching cat-like as Blair wetted them nervously. 

"Fighting dirty?" he warned, feeling the pressure against his skin, the heavy thrum of the air... 

Jim laughed low in his throat. "And what are you doing?" 

"This." Blair took two steps forward and leaned up, changing his mind at the very last moment. Someone must have leaned forward because their lips met anyway. 

( _shit_ ) 

"Shit!" 

(Jim's voice) 

Jim jerked backwards, not quite falling flat. Blair stopped where he was, eyes still closed. Slowly opening. 

In front of him, a sentinel raised trembling hands to his lips. 

Almost out-of-body now, Blair watched them both tremble, waiting for words. Blessedly they came to him first, easy and liquid, like the head-rush of throwing up. 

"Doesn't it work this way?" asked Blair, nauseous with triumph. "Doesn't it work with me wanting you too?" 

Jim traced his lips like he couldn't quite believe they existed. 

"Is this a dominance thing, Jim? IS this about who gets top, about who gets to be the aggressor? Because man, I really don't have much left for you to assuage your fractured ego with -" Blair swallowed. "You kissed me first, Jim. What the fuck was that?" 

Jim stared at his fingers, rubbing index and thumb together. Looked up as Blair repeated his mantra, "What the fuck was that?" 

Jim spoke. Finally. 

" _That_ was a mistake." 

\-- 

(yes) 

Two a.m. in bed and the memory swamped Blair, drowning him. He clawed for air, gasping, breathing. 

(mistake, that. Breathing...) 

(Breathing tasted of Jim, the air prickled with the sound of fabric rasping against his shirt as Blair was lifted and held and molded against Jim. Jim filled his world, mental, spiritual and now the physical, lips that tasted ever so slightly of salt and chicken soup blending with his, breath exchanged for rationality and the ever present shards of glass changing to the bite of teeth to his lips, his cheek, his neck.) 

(Fingers, now fingers pressing hard into his biceps, traveling upwards. A moan, someone, and the two of them pressing harder against each other.) 

(The sudden, cock-deflating shock as each of them found the other hard and in contact, momentary shock that broke them apart, breathing) 

"It never happened," Blair said aloud in the darkness. 

Above him he thought he heard Jim stir. 

(Get out of bed. Come down the stairs.) 

(Enter the room) 

(no.) 

Blair closed his eyes, sickened. 

"Hey," said a soft voice, not his. 

Blair opened his eyes. 

\-- 

The bed creaked as Jim lay down, not asking for permission. Blair moved aside slightly, making room. 

They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. 

This time Jim spoke first. 

\-- 

"You never talk to me," he said. "It's like you say all these things but you're never really there anymore." 

(Ah, but who _am_ I, Jim?) 

"I talk to you," said Blair. 

Rustle of sheets as Jim shook his head. "No. I listen to you, you know. All the time." 

(But do you hear me?) 

"Because it's a Sentinel thing?" 

"No." Jim's voice sounded... sad. And slow. And old. "I listen to you because you're my friend. You want me to say it? I listen because you're my best friend." Softer, so soft he could barely hear Jim say, "At least I thought you were." 

"Jim..." 

"I used to know you. I thought I did know you." Jim paused, exhaled. "Was I wrong?" 

(Yes.) 

"Jim." 

"It's mutual, right? I know you, you know me...that's not a dominance thing, is it?" 

(You're scaring me, Jim.) 

"Your heartbeat was elevated to eighty three seconds ago but you're calming it down." Jim recited in a monotone. "You're holding your breath and you're probably thinking of a mantra, maybe the Gayathri that you tried teaching me last summer... and I'm going to stop now because every single word I'm saying is scaring the shit out of you. And me, come to think of it." 

"Not every word," Blair choked. Laughter or a sob? "Okay. So you know me." 

"Hey." Jim reached out a tentative hand and touched Blair's shoulder. "Both ways. You think you don't scare the hell out of me?" 

(No.) 

"No." 

Jim gripped Blair's shoulder. "I liked the kiss. You just... caught me by surprise. Like you said -" he tried the words out for size. "You startled me. I'm used to being the aggressor." 

(Prove it.) 

"You want me to prove it?" 

"Not really, no," 

"I think you're lying." 

Blair shrugged. "Counting my heartbeat again?" 

"It could be mutual. If you wanted. Monitoring heartbeats," said Jim, meaning everything else too. "Here. Let me show you." But he waited for assent. 

Blair gave it. Didn't he always? 

"Okay." 

Jim clasped Blair's hand, leaving it open-palmed against the heart of his chest. Blair tensed, relaxed. 

"Think sentinel," Jim said, half-teasing, and after a moment Blair let himself fall into it, the contact, the surface areas of their skin interacting. The existence of a hand on a heart - 

His palm flexed, spread out against Jim's heart. Deep inside he could actually, if he tried, follow a faint thrumming... 

Without quite realizing how it had happened, Blair found himself lying half on top of Jim, head pressed to his chest, ears pricked and listening. 

"You feel that?" Jim rumbled softly, sound carrying through a cavern of ribs and affecting the heartbeat, "feel anything?" 

"Ssh." And Jim shut up. 

Blair waited for the vibrations of Jim's voice to die down, waited and listened. 

He heard. The thump of a heartbeat. Skip, arrhythmia. Thump. Thump. 

(A heart. A heartbeat) 

Blair laid another hand on his own heart, feeling it beat. Separate but in tune. 

Jim's life continued under his ear. Affected, quite amazingly, by the touch of Blair on him. 

"Yes," said Jim. "Yes, that too." 

(Two people, not one. Existence that affects but still separates.) 

For the first time that made him sad. Wondered what it would be like for Jim to always hear these rhythms separate from him. 

The thought made him squeeze Jim's hand. 

(Mine to me.) 

(Yes?) 

"Please," asked Jim, very quietly. Blair looked up into his hunger bright eyes, hunger that he could see even in the darkness. 

It didn't frighten him. 

"Yes," answered Blair, reaching up before he changed his mind. 

(Yes. God, yes.) 

He didn't change his mind. 

\-- 

"I'll understand," Jim said moments later, catching his breath and trying not to pant. Blair watched with glazed and dark softened eyes as his partner bit his lip and formed inarticulate words. "You're in shock, you're grieving, this is therapeutic, life-affirming," 

Blair stopped him with a hand on his lips. Removed it and said clearly, "I'm the one who babbles over-analysis in shock, not you. Get that straight." 

"Urk," said Jim, in total agreement as Blair replaced hand with mouth. "I babble, you - God, do that again!" 

They kissed, groping. 

First times were fumbles in the dark, frantic sweaty couplings with tab A and slot B confusingly unaligned - except what were you supposed to do with two tab As? 

This. 

(God) 

"Will you remember this?" Blair asked, strained but holding himself in check to imprint the memory of his thigh on Jim's. "You'll remember this?" Their legs entwined, dicks... against. Each other. God. 

"God. No." Jim groaned, chuckled. "I have... a very bad memory. You'll have to - oh -" as Blair kissed him, "Remind me again, and again, and again," gasping as Blair slid up, rubbing chest against chest, thigh against thigh. "Again! Blair!" 

"I know you too, Jim," kissing him, holding him as he came almost hurtfully against their tangled limbs. "I know you mine." 

(Mine. _mine_ ) 

\-- 

Afterwards, sweaty and sticky and utterly filthy stinking of semen Blair wrapped his arms around Jim and held him tight. 

"You kissed me first, you jerk. What was that for?" meaning everything and nothing, because it felt good to be able to joke now. 

"Let me up and I'll show you," muttered Jim. "Your hair is sticking in my teeth, Sandburg." 

"Good. You deserve it." 

Jim pulled free and sat up braced on his elbows, eyes luminous as he searched out Blair's. 

"I deserve you." 

"Yes." 

"You deserve me." 

Blair inhaled. "God, yes. Come here." 

But Jim held himself away, face slightly worried. "Blair..." 

"What?" Softening his tone as he looked into Jim's face, now definitely strained. 

"Blair... there's something else you need to know." 

(Oh.) 

"Oh?" trying to sound confident and accepting of anything while in actual fact his heart was doing a Titanic. "Yes Jim?" 

"You see..." Jim braced himself. "I _am_ a masochist." And sprang. 

"Hey! No tickling - urgh!" 

\-- 

There were bruises on his hips and a bite on his jaw. And Jim... Jim's hair was fine against his fingers, hypnotically soothing to stroke. The remembered feel set Blair shivering at his PC, hands poised to write. 

(Except Stoddard won't be checking email will he? Stupid, stupid...) 

He shut down the computer. 

(Too early to phone. And what would I say?) 

Easier to walk back into his room, into the waiting arms of Jim, wide-awake and not pretending to be asleep. 

Blair smiled slightly. It didn't hurt. Much. 

Jim stroked his hair, murmuring softly. Words, nonsense words. Blair thought he caught a 'darling' somewhere and repeated it to be sure. 

Jim blushed. 

"Yes," Blair answered. Not quite a traditional exchange of vows, but it would do. 

Jim's finger on his lips. "Blair. You should -" 

Blair bit the finger. "Don't push it." then obscurely, "But yes, I will. Soon." 

Jim nodded like he understood. 

"I know you will," he told Blair. "Yeah. Because I _know_ you." 

(You're pushing it Ellison. But yeah.) 

"Yeah. I know." 

~ End. 

\-- 

talk to me please? 

* * *

End Parentheses by Spyke: spyke_raven@yahoo.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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